The Beginning of Everything (The Rising Book 1)

by Kristen Ashley

  The Beginning of Everything

  Copyright © 2019 by Kristen Ashley

  Cover Art by:

  PixelMischief

  Interior Design & Formatting by:

  Christine Borgford

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Contents

  THE BEGINNING OF EVERYTHING

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  About the Author

  Books by Kristen Ashley

  Connect with Kristen Ashley

  PROLOGUE

  The Prophecy

  Once upon a time, in a parallel universe, there existed an abundance of beauty and riches on the continent of Triton.

  Yet for millennia, the peoples within it knew nothing but mistrust and oppression and war.

  Peace was not the destiny chosen by the rulers.

  Differences were reviled.

  Subjugation was observed.

  Conflict was sought.

  One cold night in Sky City, broken from centuries of exploitation, finding themselves without an alternate course, the women gathered their magicks and made the ultimate sacrifice.

  They slayed the men who were their masters.

  Leaving their sons and gathering their daughters, they fled the city and created The Enchantments of the Warrior Sisterhood of the Nadirii.

  In the magical, green, sunny forest of The Enchantments, mighty trees charmed by their witches grew tall and strong, providing treehomes for the sisterhood of the skilled warriors of the Nadirii. The sisterhood welcomed all who beseeched their Enchantments to escape their oppressors and thus grew and thrived through loyalty and trust.

  And earned the wrath of men who sought to collect them.

  The rest of Triton grew fractured, splintering into different realms.

  There were the sun-drenched dunes and mountains of the wealthy, wanton and barbarous southern region of Firenze whose mines of jewels, northern fields of spices and rare silk made them the richest nation of Triton.

  And their riches were coveted by others.

  Then there were the wet, fertile, wooded forests, dells and plains of the virtuous northwest region of Wodell, whose sheep produced the best wool on the planet, and whose crops and orchards fed the continent.

  And whose people tired of war and chafed under a weak king.

  Further, there were the black crags of the northern shores and the rolling fields inland of the cultured nation of Airen, producing olives and wine and the best leather and weapons on the continent.

  And populated by men who had not learned.

  And there was the island continent of Mar-el. Its barren shores of rock and beach forced its people to live by the sea and become fishermen, sailors…and pirates. But within its boundaries, there was a secret.

  And its peoples remained removed from the rest by decree of their king.

  Last, there was the Dome City. Known for its resplendent golden domes, the city-state was the place of the religion and practitioners of Go’Doan. The priests and their mysterious female acolytes held fast to three sacred missions: education, healing, and most of all, extending their beliefs.

  But even after the Night of the Fallen Masters that saw the birth of the Nadirii…

  Dissension, assassination, rebellion and conflict reigned across the continent of Triton.

  And then there were those…

  Those who would see the dominion of all in all lands, the peoples of the nations of Triton cowed to their whims and controlled by new masters.

  And it was those who conspired to reawaken the Beast, a fearsome creature who wrought tragedy and devastation across the continent who had been vanquished centuries before.

  Foreseeing this, a powerful coven of witches proclaimed the prophecy.

  Triton’s four strongest warriors must wed its four most powerful witches, binding all nations together.

  There is the quiet maiden, Silence, born of Wodell.

  And the savage king, Mars, born of Firenze.

  And the cold warrior, Cassius, born to Airen.

  And the fierce witch, Elena, born to the Nadirii.

  And the steadfast soldier, True, born to Wodell.

  And the banished beauty, Farah, born to Firenze.

  And the pirate king, Aramus, ascended in Mar-el.

  To make the crusading Ha-Lah his queen.

  If these men and women could see beyond their differences of culture and history, pride, politics and pasts—and love could prevail—their strength and magicks would flourish…

  Then, they could face The Rising.

  And perhaps defeat the Beast.

  The time has come.

  He has been awakened…

  And he is rising…

  1

  The Feeding

  The Priest

  Ancient Ritual Ground, Lesser Thicket Forest

  WODELL

  He stood removed from his four brothers as they did their work.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t have the stomach for it.

  Well, not this part of it.

  The part that had just been completed however…

  The part that meant the virgin staked naked to the dirt, arms wide overhead, legs spread-eagle, was virgin no more. The seed of four men flowed from her into the earth.

  That part he had no stomach for.

  It was the next part he rather enjoyed.

  He was happy to note she’d long-since stopped screaming.

  “Continue,” he commanded when one of the men who’d again donned his dark-gray robe turned his head the priest’s way for instructions.

  This was when it happened. When the ritual set his blood to quickening. His skin heating.

  It was when the men approached her with their daggers drawn, and when they’d gained their places, they fell to their knees.

  She had it in her for but a mere whimper when the first blade slid into her left side at her waist.

  And then out, the blood swelling from the wound, rippling toward the earth.

  Another, slighter whimper when the other blade slid into her right side.


  And out.

  The next slid precisely, nicking her heart, causing an actual gasp.

  And then out.

  And the next, her womb with an upward slice, and at that point, no sound at all.

  The dagger was pulled out.

  That was when the priest moved in his white robes toward her, his fingers wrapping lovingly around his own dagger at his gilded belt.

  There was naught left of her to even turn her head and look at him, even if she still breathed. She did nothing but stare at the starry sky through the leafy trees. The pumps of blood surging from her chest slowing as that organ lost its strength were her body’s indication of its desperate desire to stay bound in this realm, even if, perhaps, she did not share this wish.

  She would find peace.

  He did not know that for certain, but at this point, did it really matter?

  He crouched close to her glossy brown hair that was now filled with dirt and mud and twigs and leaves, tangled, even ratted in places, due to her struggles that night.

  She had been a spirited one.

  The Beast liked those best.

  “I’m sorry, my dear. We must feed the Beast,” he murmured before he skated his blade across her windpipe, opening flesh and creating a surge of blood.

  A gurgle from her lips.

  Then two.

  After that, the priest watched the light blink out of her lovely blue eyes.

  He rose, stepped back, and commanded, “Untether her and turn her in order she drain direct.”

  The four men moved as ordered.

  The priest stood separate, watching, waiting.

  And when it came, it was more than satisfactory.

  Much more.

  The rumble, the growl, the roll of the earth under their feet so powerful, it almost took him off his own.

  It had not been thus a fortnight before.

  Most definitely not the fortnight before that.

  Decades ago, when he assumed his role as the overseer of the ritual, there was barely a rumble, and no growl.

  But now, it grew strong.

  And hungry.

  “My lord,” one of the men called, eyes wide and on the priest.

  “Not long now,” the priest announced.

  “Then every week,” another of the men declared. “Centuries of the ritual. The sacrifices. So close. I can feel his strength. His hunger. Every week we shall join at this sacred place and—”

  “No,” the priest denied. “Every month.”

  “Month?” another man asked with incredulity. “It’s been every fortnight for two and a half centuries.”

  “You’ll anger the Beast,” the impatient collaborator snapped.

  “He must understand who his master is,” the priest reminded them.

  “Who his masters are,” the man corrected him, and the priest narrowed his eyes.

  When the Beast was his, that one would go first.

  “Of course,” the priest murmured.

  “Every month seems—”

  “We feed it. We nurture it. We give it what it needs. We make it grow strong. It will be we who liberate it. He must learn patience. He must learn gratitude. He must learn,” he leaned toward the men, “servitude.”

  The priest leaned back and moved his gaze through the four men, assessing each one.

  He did linger on his favorite though, as was his wont, for there was much to linger on.

  They had been chosen carefully. They had been trained accordingly. They, and those who had come before them, had lived, plotted, schemed, raped and murdered for one goal.

  The goal they’d achieve while these men’s feet walked the earth.

  While his feet walked the earth.

  And what he saw then was that these men knew it.

  The priest would have patience. They would give it to him.

  For if they did, they would all be kings.

  (Save one, but he’d always been bothersome.)

  “We have known, as our brothers before us, and those before them, and backwards for over two hundred years what we wish,” the priest stated. “The lore is not lore. The Beast abides in the under-realm. Banished there after his last rising. He will rise again. He will be ours.” He paused for effect, something he felt he was quite good at, before declaring grandly, “And then Triton will be ours.”

  There came a low “Huzzah” from his conspirators, but then again, a loud roar would not be the thing. They were deep in the forest. There was no one close.

  But it wouldn’t do for their sacred site that had stayed secret for over two hundred years to be discovered at this late date.

  Obviously most especially after a ritual.

  “She is surely drained,” the priest noted. “Take her. Tonight, our work is done. We meet again in a month. And it’s,” his gaze fell on the impatient accomplice, “your turn to find the candidate.”

  His least-liked brethren gave the priest a look that said he wished to open his mouth and share something.

  Wisely, he did not.

  With ease borne of practice, the sacrifice was wrapped in a sheet, loaded on a horse, and with cursory farewells, three of the four men were away.

  Leaving the priest with his favorite.

  “Are you certain we should wait an entire month?” his chosen one asked as the priest drew close to him. “That growl seemed—”

  “Open your robes,” the priest ordered quietly.

  Looking up, he saw his brother’s eyes fire.

  Gratifyingly, he then opened his robes and bared himself.

  It was gratifying as it was so soon after he spent himself inside the vessel.

  And it was gratifying because it was so beautiful to look at.

  The priest dropped to his knees and took the shaft deep into his mouth.

  And more gratification at the rumbling groan.

  He tasted her for a but few strokes.

  After that, he tasted only man.

  Later, his snowy robes cast aside, naked on all fours in the moonlight, taking hard, thick cock through his arse, hands and knees in the blood-soaked earth, the priest’s head jerked back, and he called his pleasure into the moonlit night as he spent his seed into the dirt.

  His chosen one milked him dry before his thrusts grew in violence and he shot deep inside.

  Finished, he ground there, murmuring, “Gods, but your arse is tight and hot.”

  “You really must remember to bring oil, Rupert,” the priest muttered.

  He felt his lover curl over him, still hard inside.

  “You like the pain,” he whispered in the priest’s ear.

  Indeed.

  “Pull out. Needs be we’re away.”

  Knowing precisely how he liked it, the end of the penetration was rough, making the priest moan.

  “Oh yes, he likes the pain,” was whispered above him.

  The priest ignored that as he took a moment to rub his seed into the dirt.

  There was no growl at that.

  Just a hum.

  And having done this, just like this (though with different partners), for over a decade, the priest knew he was the only one who felt the hum.

  So he knew who the Beast’s true master would be.

  2

  The Standing Stones

  The Great Coven

  Silbury Henge, Argyll Forest

  AIREN

  In the clearing of the forest, the first flash of light came before the first of the five standing stones.

  It was marine blue.

  As the woman stepped forward out of the flash, immediately, the stone next to her lit with red light.

  And that woman stepped forward.

  The next, the light was green.

  And after that woman stepped forward, a flash of bright white.

  That woman joined the others at the slab at the center of the circle.

  A slab that in ancient times had known the blood of humans, then the blood of animals.

  But for millennia, it had known no
offering but the wind that shorn its edges curved and smooth, the rain that beat its height into the dirt, the sun that bleached its color.

  Just as the standing stones around it. Once standing tall and proud over two stories toward the sky, now, they stood just over one, the edges dulled, one having taken a strike of lightning, weakening it, so a fragment broke off and plummeted, bedding itself in the earth by its sister’s side.

  The four women turned.

  The fifth light flashed coral and through it came Ophelia, Queen of the Nadirii Sisterhood.

  “Sister.”

  “Sister.”

  “Sister.”

  “Sister.”

  “My sisters,” Ophelia murmured in greeting, taking her place amongst her sistren at the slab.

  “Fare thee well?” Rebecca of the Dellish asked, her gaze sharp on the queen.

  “Not tonight. The disturbance has occurred again, right on cue,” Ophelia replied.

  That was not the answer to Rebecca’s question and Ophelia knew it.

  Rebecca did not prompt.

  “We have work to do,” Lena of the Mar-el noted, moving closer to the altar.

  The rest followed suit.

  Lena began.

  Touching the stone with her fingertips, she stated clearly, “The moon.”

  Nandra of the Firenz touched the stone. “The blood.”

  Fern of the Airenzian touched it. “The star.”

  Rebecca followed suit. “The dirt.”

  Ophelia went last. “The sisterhood.”

  A frisson of energy slithered up their arms, singing under their feet, vibrating in the stones, and the simple ritual complete, the circle united, the coven present, they took their hands away.

  “They rouse the Beast,” Rebecca told them what they all already knew and had, for some years now.

  “They are cloaked. At the power of the last rousing, I spent the fortnight trying to find them and naught else. No sleep, no food, deep in meditation, casting spells that have not been attempted in centuries. And I could not,” Lena declared.

  “They have a powerful sorcerer among them,” Ophelia murmured.

  “Go’Doan?” Nandra asked bitingly.

  Ophelia looked to her sister, sharing her dislike of the Go’Doan, at least some of them, (well, truly, most of them) but not showing it. “I suspect, but I cannot be sure. I cannot feel them either.”